I was twenty-three years old when I took my first flight. 

Some people get used to air travel very young in life; perhaps their parents are fond of family vacations that require traveling by airplane. My parents were fond of family vacations, but ours were the sort that could be taken by piling everyone into the car and driving to the desired destination. And while I'd always listened with fascination when my father talked to me about the joys of flying, it wasn't until I was nearly in my mid-twenties that I got to experience it for myself. 

I hated it instantly. 

The occasion was simple: I was flying home to Washington, DC for a friend's wedding. At the time, I was living in Northwestern Oklahoma, and since I was only going to be staying in DC a few days, the drive would be longer than it was worth and eat up precious time I would need to visit with friends and family. 

Everything about that first flight was nerve-wracking. In a country that was only a few years past 9/11, airports were a very scary place to the inexperienced air traveler. Security lines were the stuff of nightmares, enough to induce anxiety on a level I'd never felt before. There were so many things to remember, and so many instructions being shouted at me from what seemed like every direction:

"Take off your shoes!"

"Are you wearing a belt?"

"Put your belongings in one bin."

"Wait there for just one second!"

"Put your hands up and stand perfectly still!"

It was the strangest feeling, walking into what looked like the tube that your deposits go into when you use drive-through banking services. At one point, I looked around and felt incredibly self-conscious; no one else seemed to be uncomfortable. In fact, everyone around me was wearing the same tired, bored expression. It seemed they'd all been through this countless times before, and there was nothing that surprised or ruffled them. 

Enviously, I wished for some of that boredom. 

I must have checked my boarding pass a dozen times after I'd made it through security. I had these horrible visions of lining up at the wrong gate and being allowed to board the wrong plane - "I don't want to end up somewhere in Utah!" - not realizing that gate attendants have to look at your boarding pass to make sure you're getting on the right plane. I was green, and it felt like everyone around me would know it. 

I don't remember my seatmates on that very first flight. I suppose it was because I was busy trying not to have a panic attack. Takeoff was unlike anything I'd ever experienced, and I just wanted the whole thing to be over and done so I could set foot on solid ground again. 

In the years since I took that first flight, I've often looked back to reflect on how things have changed. While I'm not a frequent flyer by any stretch of the imagination (I believe that term should be used for people who do it much more often than a few times a year), I am an avid traveler. I have been on more international flights than domestic, and some of those flights have been painfully long. They've all been worth it, however, because by carrying me to other places, they've expanded my worldview. 

***

February 10, 2015.

I'm taking my very first trip to Europe this year. Six countries in four weeks. 

Ireland.

Scotland.

England.

France.

Italy.

Croatia.

I get the feeling I'm not going to want to come back to America.

(- Excerpt from my blog.)

As a little girl, I'd always wanted to go to London. It seemed like such a cool place - hipper than Washington, DC, trendier than New York City, posher than LA. I was fascinated by the London accent and mesmerized by the fashion.

In the summer of 2014, I met a few people from Sheffield, England - a city a few hours North of London - and listening to them talk about their hometown piqued my interest. Having lived in a more rural part of the United States for a little over five years had helped me get accustomed to a different pace of life, and life in Sheffield sounded exactly like what I'd gotten used to. I was intrigued. I exchanged contact information with them and promised that if I were ever planning to visit that part of the UK, I would look them up. 

Time passed, and though I didn't forget about my intentions to someday visit Sheffield, another opportunity came up. This one was the opportunity I mention in my blog post above: to go to Croatia. I'd been invited as a delegate to a Special Convention of Jehovah's Witnesses in Zagreb, the capital city of Croatia. My best friend Alicia and I accepted the invitation, and we decided that we would travel to a few other places while we were on that side of the world.

(If you ask her nicely, Alicia will tell you the story of how indignant I was that she was planning to travel to some of those places without me. She was already a seasoned traveler at this point, and she knew that I was biting off a lot more than I could chew. I would not be dissuaded, however, and it was a lesson that I would learn on my own when the time came.)

So we planned. Our original plan was to do six countries in four weeks. Somehow, with travel time and a few unplanned stops factored in, what we accomplished was more like ten countries in four weeks. Initially though, six was our number, and as the plans progressed, I started to get excited. My wishes  and dreams were about to become reality.

I know that right now, you're probably feeling a bit cheated. 

You've just turned the page, thinking that this new chapter is going to be all about my trip to Europe. I'll get to that in due time, I promise. But in order to understand why Europe was so important to me, it's important to understand what happened to me that began this broadening of my worldview in the first place. 

In October of 2007, I moved to Clinton, Oklahoma. Clinton is a small town in the Northwestern part of the state - not quite in the panhandle, but close enough to get there without too much trouble. It was a whole new experience for me, and there were a lot of firsts involved.

First time moving out of my parents' house. 

First time moving away from Washington, DC - my birthplace and the city I grew up in.

First time moving out of the city into a more rural area.

First time having to make new friends.

First time living in a place that wasn't predominately Black.

These changes were not digested easily, but I had help dealing with the shock to my system. My older brother David was there in Clinton waiting for me. He'd moved there a little less than four months prior and was going about the business of settling in nicely. 

David was an old pro at the thing we call relocating. He'd moved a few times before, and each time it was under almost the exact same circumstances. He didn't take much with him when he moved, just enough clothes to get started and a few other essentials. There was no moving of furniture involved, no holding on to bulky material things. It was a simple life. I admired it, and wanted to emulate it. 

David taught me everything I needed to know about living a simple life. We lived in Oklahoma together for five years - the first three in Clinton, and the last two in a Southwestern military town called Lawton. I don't remember everything about those five years, but I remember the important things. 

***

Clinton, Oklahoma - 2007

Two weeks after I moved to Clinton, I was involved in a car accident. 

My car was t-boned by a little old lady. I don't remember what kind of car she was driving, but I do remember her telling the police that she was eighty-three years old. What stuck out to me most was the incredulous expression on the police officer's face when he asked her, "When was the last time you had a driving test?" She looked back at him indignantly, but didn't deign to answer. I also remember the police officer looking closely at my license and my out-of-state tags, and asking me what seemed somewhat obvious from those clues and the color of my skin: "You're not from around here, are you?"

No one was hurt, but I was fairly rattled. I'd been on my way to work, and it was my first day. My habit of leaving much earlier than I needed to was a blessing in this instance; it ensured that I was still on time for work. 

Clinton was such a wonderful experience for me. I blossomed there as a person, and I truly believe that my experiences there were what helped shape me into the person I am today. I was there during the formative years of young adulthood, and I learned valuable skills that have helped me even now.